When Jack Harrison, former Washington County commissioner, passed away earlier this year, his obituary notice made reference to his being a member of the Friday Night Fish Gang, obviously something that had been very important to him.

The Fish Gang at the Firehouse Restaurant in Johnson City

I remember this gang; my uncle and late aunt, Ray and Hazel Reaves, were a part of this select group from its earliest beginnings. I asked Ray to tell me how this congenial assemblage got started. He predictably responded by inviting me to join them at one of their weekly eat-togethers. Ray said they were celebrating the 50th anniversary of their club this year:

“People often ask me how we got such a name. In 1955, several of us couples began meeting from 6:00 until about 7:30 every Friday night at the old Broadway Restaurant, on the Kingsport/Bristol highway, for their weekly fish night. “Our group got started pretty much by accident when two couples started eating out together. They soon invited others to join them and before we knew it, we had grown to twenty-eight people, all couples.”

Ray credits the late Harold and Irene Mahoney for getting the weekly seafood feast off the ground: “Harold was so committed to the event that he cautioned the members not to make any plans for Friday nights. I can remember only about eight or ten times that we failed to get together.”

Ray recalled some of the other participants through the years, several of whom are deceased: “There were Reece and Helen Sell, Aldon and Betty Speer, Jack and Dottie Harrison, Raymond and Martha Miller, Boyd and Carrie Jones, Estel and June Fair, Fred and Evelyn Moore, Harry and Nora Cook and several others.”

Ray said that most of the members over the years have been members of the First United Methodist Church of Johnson City. A former pastor of this church, Reverend Frank Settle and wife, Jean, once regularly participated in the Friday night offerings. Tragically, he was killed in an automobile accident.

Ray continued: “We were at the Broadway Restaurant for about ten years until they closed. For several years, we ate at various establishments around town, including Spot No. 2. We assigned someone to find us a place for our next meal. At first, all we ate was fish. Although we still called ourselves the Friday Night Fish Gang, we gradually began ordering individually off the menu.”

Ray said the organization has patronized only one eatery for the last few years: “Eventually, we began eating at the Firehouse Restaurant on Walnut Street, and that is where we meet today.”

The group has diminished from twenty-eight regulars to seven: Ray, Martha Miller, Aldon and Betty Speer, Evelyn Moore and Harry and Nora Cook. Ray laughingly remarked: “We don’t seem to have as much to talk about as we used to.” In their 50-year existence, the current charter members have individually consumed up to about 2600 “fish night” meals. That is a lot of eating.

With dwindling numbers, this half-century old club would appear to be munching its way into the sunset, but don’t tell that to this diminutive and devoted group. The Friday Night Fish Gang’s committed presence each week suggests that they have no thoughts of going away anytime soon. Happy birthday, gang.  

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The Liberty Theatre was the smallest and least pretentious motion picture theatre in Johnson City, yet the most evocative to area B-western movie fans. In the early to mid 1950s, patrons could enter the establishment at an affordable price (nine cents for children, fifteen cents for adults), consume a soft drink for a nickel, and munch on a big box of the best tasting popcorn on the planet for a dime, all the while being treated to a suspenseful cliffhanger serial, animated cartoon, newsreel, and an action-packed cowboy flick. 

Moviegoers once had five downtown theaters to satisfy their voracious big screen appetites. The Majestic (239 E. Main Street) and the Sevier (113-117 Spring Street) featured the latest contemporary upscale movies. The Tennessee (146 W. Main Street) and Liberty (221 E. Main Street) showed second-run movies, focusing heavily on budget pictures, “shorts” and serials. A fifth theatre, the Edisonia (236 E. Main Street), projected silent and early “talkie” movies, later becoming known as the Criterion and the State.

An afternoon of thrilling entertainment at the Liberty Theatre began with a newsreel, followed by previews of “coming attractions,” advertising such film celebrities as Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Rex Allen, Hopalong Cassidy, Johnny Mack Brown, Sunset Carson, Wild Bill Elliott, Allan Rocky Lane, Tex Ritter, Jimmy Wakely, and “Lash” LaRue. Next, a cartoon was shown featuring the antics of such animated characters as Bugs Bunny, Porky Pig, Popeye, Tom and Jerry, Yosemite Sam, the Roadrunner, Tweetie and Sylvester, Woody Woodpecker, Droopy, and others.

Afterward, the next much-anticipated “chapter” of the featured serial was presented. This was a unique and clever film genre presenting a central plot in an episodic format of 12 to 15 installments, each about 17 minutes in duration. At the finale of each serial, the heroes appeared to die from one of an inexhaustible list of calamities: animal attacks, train wrecks, falling boulders, poisonous darts, burning buildings, airplane crashes, explosions and cave-ins. Each one concluded with such words as “To be continued… at this theatre next week.” The intent was to bring people back, no matter how busy or sick they were, at additional cost, to find out how their brave superman miraculously escaped impending death. It always worked.

The management frequently gave patrons a card with numbers that corresponded to each chapter of the current serial. The attendant would punch it with each visit, awarding free access to the theatre for those who arrived for the final chapter with a fully punched card. Area aficionados can still recall many of the 231 “talkie” serials, including “King of the Rocket Men” (Republic, 1949, 15 chapters), “Captain Video” (Columbia, 1951, 15 chapters), “Thunda, King of the Congo” (Columbia, 1952, 15 chapters), “Radar Men From the Moon” (Republic, 1952, 12 chapters), and “The Lost Planet” (Columbia, 1953, 15 chapters).

With the preliminaries out of the way, the fans were now ready to sit spellbound on the edges of their seats for about an hour of hard riding “shoot-em-up” western action. B-western movies had a recurring theme; a slick cowboy would mysteriously arrive to thwart some bad hombres from taking a fair damsel’s ranch, usually located on a proposed railroad line or containing a bed of rich deposits of oil or gold. With this western genre, the actions were quite predictable, and the final outcome was never in doubt. The good guys always triumphed over the bad ones; there were no exceptions.

A western film needed three things to be successful: an imposing hero, a faithful horse, and a funny sidekick. If a movie got too serious, the comedic sidekick was always ready to inject humor into the story line. Notable cowboys/sidekicks included Roy Rogers/”Gabby” Hayes, “Lash” LaRue/Al “Fuzzy” St. John, Gene Autry/Pat Buttram, Jimmy Wakely/Dub “Cannonball” Taylor, Charles Starrett (the Durango Kid)/“Smiley” Burnette, and Johnny Mack Brown/“Fuzzy” Knight. Western fans were equally familiar with their hero’s horses. Who could ever forget Allen’s Koko, Autry’s Champion, Cassidy’s Topper, Brown’s Rebel, Carson’s Cactus, Elliott’s Thunder, Lane’s Blackjack, Ritter’s White Flash, Rogers’ Trigger, Starrett’s Raider, and Wakely’s Sonny? A good horse not only provided its rider with reliable transportation, but also could be called upon to lend a hoof when needed in a precarious situation.

 

This genre displayed a slightly different flavor when singing cowboys the likes of Tex Ritter, Gene Autry, Roy Rogers, Jimmy Wakely, and Rex Allen rode across the big theatre screen carrying guns and guitars, proving to their loyal fans that real men could both fight and sing. Moviegoers marveled when those serenading cowhands rode their beautiful stallions over extremely rough terrain, bouncing around in their saddles, yet singing a song so smooth and perfect it appeared to have come from a recording studio (which it did).

A cowboy would courageously fight the most loathsome villain one moment only to sing to his horse the next in the fresh air of the open prairie, thinking about that pretty cowgirl waiting for him at the end of the long winding trail. This was romanticism at its very best. A fundamental rule of B-western films was that cowboys could not kiss their favorite girls, at least on the theatre screen. That was a definite violation of the “code of juvenile expectancy.” The youthful crowd would permit their heroes to kiss their colorful horses but never their favorite ladies. At the movie’s finale, youngsters would file out of the theatre, trek back to their homes, saddle up their old broomstick broncos or living room rocking horse chairs and continue the adventure in the privacy of their own residences, receiving a bonus for the money they had spent.

Sadly, the 1950s slowly brought down the big curtain on B-western movies, caused by escalating production costs and the arrival of television into homes. The studios were reluctant to bring in a fresh crop of eager actors to replace the now aging ones. Thus, the Liberty’s final chapter was fast coming to an end. The theatre closed its doors about 1956 after twenty-seven years of operation. The modest and popular organization mounted its big golden palomino, “Popcorn,” and gracefully galloped into the sunset, never to return. Avid cowboy fans were saddened as they watched their favorite downtown establishment give way to a lady’s dress shop — the New Vogue… without so much as a cowboy hat, chaps, boots, or saddle to be found on the premises. 

The now aging B-western film fans must sit back and be content with the memories of hundreds of Saturday afternoons spent watching their favorite saddle aces, most of whom are long deceased. Watching an old western movie on television today does not afford the same exhilarating thrill once experienced when kids crowded into the small Liberty Theatre, gazing intently at the screen and cheering their favorite heroes. Will the day of the B-western ever return?… Probably not!  

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A favorite program from radio’s golden age was Lum and Abner, originating in 1931 with this opening dialog: (Three telephone rings): “By grannies, Abner, I believe that’s our ring.”… “I doggies Lum, I believe you’re right.”… “I’ll see. Hello, Jot’ Em Down Store, this is Lum and Abner.” Lum’s comment, “I believe that’s our ring,” vividly illustrates the improvements made in phone service since Alexander Graham Bell invented this unique contrivance in March 1876.

In the 1940s, my family’s telephone number was 1417J. Our family physician, Dr. Ray Mettetal, could be reached at 504, the Police Department at 57, and the Fire Department at 576. Even as late as 1953, the two lowest numbers in the city phone directory were 1J (G.D. Hardin) and 1W (G.M. Robertson). Not having rotary dials or push buttons on our phones, we simply placed the receiver to our ear until the operator (always a lady) responded with “number please.” After obtaining our number, she responded with a courteous “thank you,” that being the full extent of our “conversation.”

World War II imposed restrictions on phone usage as noted in a 1944 magazine: “When long distance lines are crowded and the operator asks you to please limit your calls to five minutes, it’s nice to hear you say, ‘I’ll be glad to.’” Phone service in the 1940s and 1950s seems antiquated by today’s standards, but was quite advanced compared to that of prior decades. Initially, telephones were beautiful wall mounted hardwood cabinets, containing a large black metal crank on the right side, and powered by large heavy batteries.

  

Telephone Operator Provided Valuable Service in the Early Days of Yesteryear

The shortage of cables in many areas required up to as many as nine families to share the same party line. The annoying fact was that all phones on a party line rang simultaneously, no matter who was being called. A combination of long and short rings was used to identify for which family the call was intended. A typical two-part “number” was 2512: circuit 25, one long and two short rings or 2521: circuit 25, two long and one short ring. Anybody on the party line could listen to the conversation of others. People learned to be cautious of the words uttered over the phone, lest the gossip mill start turning. A fundamental rule was to be cognizant of others’ phone needs and limit your call time. Failure to do so usually meant swift payback for the offending party.  

To call someone on another party line, people rang the “central” operator by turning the crank with the receiver still on the hook.” The caller then gave her the number so she could ring the desired circuit. Lady Central kept a list of family names, circuit numbers, and ring sequences within eyesight of her workstation. I suppose this helps explain a Science Hill High School cheer of yesteryear: “Hello central, give us a line. We can beat Kingsport any old time.” Somehow, that doesn’t fit with a cellular phone. (boblcox@bcyesteryear.com).

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Recently, I stopped at a red light in downtown Johnson City at 105 Buffalo Street, opposite the former location of the old city bus terminal. I could almost smell the tantalizing mouth-watering aroma of hot dogs wafting through the air.

Dwarfed between two large buildings (one dated 1888), this diminutive hole-in-the-wall carryout eatery was known as John’s Sandwich Shop, owned and operated by John Buda. He opened it about 1950. Previous occupants at this Buffalo Street address included W. Williams Confectioner (1923), Red “J” Taxi Company (1928), John J. Kalogeros Restaurant (1937), Alexandra Kalogeros Restaurant (1941), Joe Chester Variety Store (1944), and George’s Chili and Sandwich Shop (1948).

 

John and brothers, Alex and Charles, immigrated to this country from Albania after the turn of the century, each sibling pursing a career in the food services business. I personally knew this family. John and his wife, Ethel, and their two children, George and Ann, lived in the same apartment complex as my family in the 1940s, the elder Budas’ occasionally being my baby-sitters.

Buda offered his customers a variety of sandwiches, but it was his hot dogs that, even today, evoke such pleasant memories by the populace. John targeted those hungry yet busy people who preferred to take their food home or to their work site, as opposed to dining at a sit down café. For this reason, the numerous downtown restaurants offered little competition for the entrepreneur.

I cannot explain why John’s franks were so good; there appeared to be nothing secret about their preparation. Whatever the cooks did to them, it worked. After placing my order at one of the two windows, the attendant immediately plopped a steamed hot dog onto an equally steamed bun, garnished it with chili, mustard, and an abundant of finely ground onions, and topped it off with a heavy dose of salt from an oversized metal saltshaker. Finally, the delicacy was carefully wrapped in thick white paper, placed inside a brown paper bag, and dispensed through the window. The congenial restaurateur always thanked his customers in his heavy Albanian accent.

Area folks marveled how Buda could manage so much business from such a small building. It was not necessary for him to advertise; his scrumptious food effectively promoted itself. It was not unusual for a patron to order a dozen or more hot dogs at a time, perhaps feeding a business office or a family at home.

After more than ten years of continuous operation, John’s business served its last meal and closed its door and two windows, bringing much sadness to Johnson Citians. When John died in 1962, he left a huge void in the hearts and stomachs of his many faithful patrons. Gone, except in our memories, were the culinary delights from John’s Sandwich Shop, a small operation that could proudly boast of producing absolutely the best tasting hot dogs in town.

If you can provide additional information about John’s Sandwich Shop, please drop me a note. 

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Adulthood – That time of our lives when we frequently drift back into our childhood memory banks to withdraw some very pleasant and cherished reminiscences from our youth.

As adults, we have a propensity to emulate Charles Foster Kane, the powerful multimillionaire newspaper owner in the classic 1941 movie, Citizen Kane, who searched until he died for his never-to-be-forgotten prized childhood treasure… something I will only identify as “Rosebud,” so as not to be a spoiler.

Many Johnson Citians can vividly recall the pre-television era when we anxiously tuned in to our wooden or Bakelite table or floor model radios at the prescribed hour to listen to one of our favorite radio shows. A distinctive advantage of this early medium was that people could engage in other activities while simultaneously listening to their radios, absorbing every sound as it mysteriously leaped from the speaker, challenging the mind, and conjuring up idiosyncratic images of the people, places, and events being heard.

Television robbed us of that; requiring us to sit in a semi-darkened room and stare for long periods at a snowy black and white picture tube, often with sound so full of static that it was almost inaudible. TV showed us exactly what it wanted us to see, leaving very little to our imaginations and depriving us of our own self-imposed imagery. Many individuals old enough to remember when a few radio stars switched to television were astonished and perhaps a bit dismayed at seeing people like Ozzie and Harriet on TV, after hearing them on radio for several years. Somehow the Nelson family did not fit the image of our “mind’s eye.”  

Radio’s golden age produced an assortment of grown-up programming: Fibber McGee and Mollie; Lum and Abner; Henry Aldrich; Baby Snooks; Bulldog Drummond; Ma Perkins; The Shadow; Grand Central Station; Gangbusters; The Whistler; Vic and Sade; Jack Armstrong; Easy Aces; Escape; The Mysterious Traveler; and numerous others.

Not to be overlooked, the youngsters of that era had their own special fare, with such delights as Sergeant Preston of the Yukon (“On King, on you huskies”); Captain Midnight (“Capppppp-tain Midddddd-night”); The Lone Ranger (“A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust, and a hearty ‘Hi Yo Silver’”); and Tarzan (“From the heart of the jungle comes a savage cry of victory…”). Others included Mark Trail (“Battling the raging elements! Fighting the savage wilderness! Striking at the enemies of man and nature!”); Tom Corbett, Space Cadet (“Stand by to raise ship! Blastoff minus 5-4-3-2-1- ZERO! We take you to the age of the conquest of space…”); and the lovely (so we were told) Princess Pet (with her weekly regulars, Brown Mule and Brown Bear).

Big Jon and Sparkie

Perhaps the most remembered and revered juvenile program of the 1950s was Big Jon and Sparkie. Children within the listening range of radio station WJHL could turn their dials to 910 AM and enjoy this unique series. The popular program would eventually be broadcasted over 275 stations, attracting an impressive twelve million listeners. Big Jon produced two different series each week — a one-hour Saturday morning version at 9:00, known as No School Today and a fifteen-minute weekday afternoon edition at 5:00, identified as The Adventures of Big Jon and Sparkie. The former was a variety program of stories, riddles, jokes, songs, and other related childhood activities. The latter used an entirely different format with a continuous story line, blending thrilling adventures with simple humor. Both efforts were aimed at  “the younger generation and the young at heart.”

Big Jon was the show’s writer and producer, supplying vocalizations for the entire cast including Sparkie, “the little elf from the land of make-believe, who wants more than anything else in the world to be a real boy.” He cleverly and effectively mixed a pinch of bleak reality with a smidgen of wholesome fantasy to the delight of his many young fans. The popular entertainer created Sparkie’s elf-like high-pitched voice by recording his own voice on a reel-to-reel tape recorder and increasing the speed on playback. This process was time-consuming, requiring precise coordinating skills between Arthur and his recorder to give the illusion of the “pair” conversing with one another and with other characters on the program.

The gentle talking Big Jon Arthur (whose real name was Jonathan Goerss) opened the weekend show with… “Hi hey hello again, here we go again. Hi kids. Hey, come in her right now because it’s time for… Biggggg Jonnnnn and Sparrrrrkie ‘cause it’s Saturday and there’s nooooo schoooool todaaaaay.” Bandleader Gil Hooley and His Leprechaun Marching Band next played the show’s familiar theme song, “The Teddy Bear’s Picnic”… “If you go down in the woods today; You’re sure of a big surprise; If you go down in the woods today; You’d better go in disguise; For every bear that ever there was; Will gather there for certain because; Today’s the day the teddy bears have their picnic.”

Throughout its eight-year stint, Arthur paraded a variety of colorful characters across the radio stage including Mayor Plumpfront (city official), Daffodil Dilly (town widow), Ukey Betcha (cab driver), Clyde Pillroller (drugstore owner), and Mr. DaVinci (paint store proprietor). A highlight of each program was the recognition of those youngsters who had a birthday that week. A unique feature of the No School Today series was the weekly competition between the girls and boys. Using his “magic spyglass,” Arthur instructed the children to stand close to their radios so he could score each one as to his/her own personal hygiene and bedroom tidiness. He would then declare the boys or the girls the winner, depending on who had the most points.

The entertainer might say… “Bobby, I can see all those toys you tried to hide under your bed” and “Mary, your room looks especially neat and orderly this morning.” This inspection was so realistic that no self-respectable kid would dare listen to Big Jon and Sparkie if he/she was poorly groomed or had a cluttered room for fear of being “seen” by Big Jon.

The show utilized a sizable record library of stories and songs by such notables as Dennis Day (Jack Benny Program), Morey Amsterdam (Dick Van Dyke Show), Paul Wing (storyteller), Charles Laughton (British actor), Danny Kaye (actor/comedian), and Hugh “Uncle Lumpy” Brannum (Fred Waring Radio Show).

Uncle Lumpy later became the character, Mister Green Jeans (animal lover, farmer, handyman, and inventor), on the popular “Captain Kangaroo” television show. Brannum was also the voice of 46 masterfully done “Little Orley” Decca records, each being a three-minute musical adventure narrative. Orley was probably the most remembered story with subjects ranging from a parade and a cloud to a barn dance and a bull fiddle. Brannum began each record with “Well now, once upon a time…” and ended them with… “That’s all!”

Big Jon and Sparkie was one of the final children’s programs on network radio being, without a doubt, the most beloved. The talented entertainer made a brief comeback in the mid 1970s over Christian Radio before his death in 1982. The hero of millions of youngsters growing up in the 1950s may have faded into obscurity for most area residents, but to one generation of young loyal radio fans, Mr. Jonathan Goerss is firmly imbedded in their memories as a special never-to-be-forgotten … “Rosebud.”   

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Just prior to Johnson City’s two-story Arcade being demolished in 1985, I visited the 62-year-old dying structure to pay my final respects.

When construction of the city’s first indoor shopping mall began in 1923 at 133-135 W. Market Street, there was a smorgasbord of sounds in the air: the “whooo whooo” of steam locomotives, “clang clang” of trolleys, “ooogah ooogah” of Model T Fords, and even an occasional “nei-ei-ei-eigh from a horse.

The Arcade consisted of two parallel rows of small specialty shops, separated by a long convenient viaduct that ran perpendicular from Market to Main streets. Vintage businesses in the 19 bottom floor units once included: The Blue Ridge Coffee Company, Tennessee Washing Machine Company, National Cash Register Company, Bessie’s Place Restaurant, Shell Realty Company, Arcade Newsstand, Arcade Music Shop, Long Seafood Market, Ocean Café, Cameron Jewelers, Bower Brothers Auctioneers, Alabama Novelty House, Time Shop, Trading Post, and many others.

The Exterior of the Arcade Looking from the South Entrance (Main Street Side)

The 16 upper floor spaces, accessible by a beautiful wide marble staircase, attracted attorneys, doctors, accountants, notary publics, private detectives, chiropractors, contractors, optometrists, and justices of the peace. That afternoon, as I traversed the long corridor between the north and south entrances, I became dismayed at how much the facility had deteriorated over time. Most units were closed and locked with an accumulation of debris, fallen ceiling tiles, and thick dust covering the darkened musty premises. 

In my mind’s eye, I began to visual the old structure as I remembered it. I saw and heard the merriment of eager hurrying shoppers. I plunked a penny into the old pedestrian weigh scale at the south entrance that once greeted customers. I stood and looked in the door of the Arcade Confectionery, the longest operating store in the mall, observing Mildred Wexler as she busily performing her duties. I purchased a cold watermelon, after first plugging and tasting it, from a produce shop along the northeast end. As I approached the west side of the north entrance, my coin collecting days flashed before me; there stood Archie Blevins and W.I. Vines behind their spacious display counter attending to a numismatic customer.

      

The Interior of the Arcade Looking from the South (Main Street Side)

Those hanging on during the Arcade’s waning years included the Rustic Attic, Jerry’s Bargain Center, Stewart’s Used Clothing, Arcade Barbershop, Tri-State Antiques, Elegant Emporium, Bud’s Gyp Joint, Sam’s Used Furniture, and the Free Saints Independent Mission Church. The Arcade’s death was a slow painful one. The occupancy rate of the upper floors began to decline substantially in the late 1950s, followed by a similar decrease in the lower floors by the late 1960s.

Within ten years, the building had essentially become a sparsely attended low-budget flea market. As I sadly departed the Arcade for my final time, I looked back at a sign posted in one of the windows that seemed to say it all: “Our Last Sale – Grab it.” Those prophetic words soon became a reality; the once unique Arcade was no more. 

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The year was 1927. Charles Lindbergh became the first individual to fly solo across the Atlantic Ocean; famed New York Yankee slugger, Babe Ruth, hit sixty home runs in a single season; the Ford Motor Company ceased production of its “Tin Lizzie’ in favor of their highly popular Model T automobile; “The Jazz Singer” signaled the end of silent movies, ushering in the first motion picture with a sound track; and Nashville’s Grand Ole Opry launched its first radio broadcast.

In the spring of that same year, two relatively forgotten events occurred in Johnson City that would factor into the equation that eventually propelled a struggling unknown singer into the role as the “Father of Country Music.” His name… Jimmie Rodgers. Also known as “The Singing Brakeman” and the “The Blue Yodeler,” the singer would become the first nationally known star of country music, influencing future generations of wannabe vocalists. His career was succinct yet significant, cut short at age 35 after a losing battle with tuberculosis.

Jimmie’s brass plaque in the Country Music Hall of Fame proclaims “Jimmie Rodgers' name stands foremost in the country music field as the man who started it all.” The epitaph on his statue at the Jimmie Rodgers Memorial Museum in Meridian, Mississippi reads… “His is the music of America. He sang the songs of the people he loved, of a young nation growing strong. His was an America of glistening rails, thundering boxcars, and rain-swept nights, of lonesome prairies, great mountains and a high blue sky. He sang of the bayous and the cornfields, the wheated plains, of the little towns, the cities, and of the winding rivers of America.”  

The then-struggling performer made two visits to Johnson City to take advantage of some opportunities afforded him by the city’s rich musical heritage. By this time, he and his wife, Carrie, were residing in Asheville, North Carolina, where he had become a regular entertainer over radio station WWNC.

Rodger’s first trip to Johnson City transpired soon after he became knowledgeable of the upcoming 52ndDistrict Rotary Clubs’ annual convention being held on April 24-26. As an added attraction, the service club featured entertainment.Upon arrival, the future “blue yodeler” was given an opportunity to perform on several entertainment programs being offered to the attendees during the three-day event.

In addition to Rodgers, numerous other talents arrived from across the area, including a very popular group from Bristol, the Tenneva Ramblers, choosing their abbreviated name from the fact that the city’s main street is divided between Tennessee and Virginia. The spirited group consisted of Claude Grant (lead vocals, guitar), Jack Grant (mandolin), and Jack Pierce (fiddle). Greatly impressed with this band, Jimmie invited the three young chaps to return with him to Asheville to broadcast over WWNC, giving the slightly embellished impression that he was rapidly becoming a celebrity. The Ramblers were overwhelmed at the thought of performing with Rodgers over radio; they reasoned the exposure would bring them fame and wealth.

However, the popular band had to decline Jimmie’s enticing offer because they were heavily booked with numerous musical venues across the region. Sensing the trio might later reconsider his offer, Rodgers gave them specific instructions on how to contact him after he returned to North Carolina. At the conclusion of the Rotary convention, the future superstar drove back to Asheville, returning to the airwaves with another performer, Otis Kuykendall. However, this two-person arrangement yielded very little listener support, resulting in low wages for the pair.

The “Singing Brakeman” was in a quandary, trying to find his niche to satisfy the craving appetites of a rapidly increasing number of country music fans. He began to lean heavily toward his roots, favoring basic folk or “hillbilly” music, a word that had become identified with this musical genre after Al Hopkins used it in January 1925 to name his Virginia-based string band. Rodgers was unaware that, at that precise moment, country music record pioneer, Ralph Peer of the Victor Talking Machine Company, was making preparations to record local area talent using a portable field unit. 

After the Tenneva Ramblers finished their planned engagements, they hurriedly contacted Jimmie who told them the radio offer was still valid. Without haste, they packed their few belongings and headed toward Asheville in a worn-out jalopy, riding on slick tires and traveling over unpaved mountainous roads so steep, winding, and treacherous, they were almost impassable.

The Jimmie Rodgers Entertainers

Upon arrival, the Ramblers and Rodgers immediately acquired a new name: the Jimmie Rodgers Entertainers, firmly establishing the performer as the leader of the assemblage. Their radio stint would prove to be a brief one; the station bosses did not like the music they were playing and singing. Thus they began working anywhere they could find appearances, all the while earning a paltry income. Times were not good for the Jimmie Rodgers Entertainers. 

In June 1927, the group made a second visit to Johnson City, this time attracted by news of an upcoming Trade Exposition and Tri-State Fair (now called the Appalachian District Fair). In the midst of the massive crowds and merriment was the promise of continuous musical entertainment… and money.

Rodgers’ big break came during a stop-over in Bristol with his group to visit their families. While strolling through downtown, he observed crowds of people lining up outside a vacant building on the Tennessee side of State Street, there to audition for Ralph Peer, who had selected Bristol as his site of operation. The train of opportunity the singer had been searching for had finally arrived.

When Jimmie approached his band members about auditioning for Peer, he unexpectedly found them somewhat disinterested, thinking they had nothing worthy of putting on wax. However, they agreed to it because of their dismal financial situation. Nonetheless, just prior to the try-out, the group became engaged in a heated argument over the name that would be used on any future records and summarily disbanded. The three Bristol boys quickly returned to their old designation, the Tenneva Ramblers, and auditioned separately for Peer.

Not to be deterred by the sudden loss of his band, Jimmie sang solo and was afforded the opportunity to record two songs: “”The Soldier's Sweetheart” and his future classic, “Sleep, Baby, Sleep,” receiving $100 for two hours and twenty minutes of studio work. Without even realizing it, Jimmie was on his way toward superstardom, with appearances and additional recording contracts just around the corner. Sadly, he would have just six brief years to establish his legacy.

Had Jimmie Rodgers not come to Johnson City in 1927, not met the Tenneva Ramblers at the Rotary Club convention, not returned for the fair, and not visited Bristol with his band, it is quite possible that he would not have known about or had the opportunity to participate in the now famous “Bristol Sessions”.

Rodgers could have become just another country music hopeful in the annals of time, fading into obscurity, instead of achieving the prestigious title of the “Father of Country Music.” Bristol may claim most of the accolades for his monumental success, but Johnson City justifiably deserves at least a share of the credit.  

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Few area residents can remember Johnson City’s grand “Lady of the Fountain,” who once adorned the downtown area along the east side of the railroad tracks. Over time, she became an icon, overlooking the very vicinity that would later bear her name, Fountain Square.

While her history is a bit blurred from a dearth of accurate record keeping, sufficient information exists that offers a hint of her once colorful past.

The lady, an imposing six-foot solid bronze statue, stood barefooted on a pedestal in the center of a three-foot tall circular concrete multi-spigot water fountain, facing southeast toward the Unaka National Bank building on Main Street.

Through the years, many a weary traveler has navigated through the city’s central business district, pausing just long enough to imbibe from her cool refreshing fountain. Several small pans situated around the base collected runoff water, further supplying water for horses and small animals.

This beautiful yet unsmiling melancholic lady was always modestly dressed in apparel resembling a Roman toga with sash, wearing earrings and a bracelet, Roman style “rolled” hair, and holding a large urn behind her right shoulder.

Considering her long exposure to the cold East Tennessee winters, her somewhat scantily clad garments were a bit surprising, perhaps accounting for her slate blue appearance. The hard-working townspeople were attracted to their pretty “fountain lady,” possibly because of her plaintive and unassuming subservient appearance.

It is believed that the shoeless beauty became a part of the city about 1904, soon after “Mountain Home,” known as “a city within a city,” was built. One conjecture suggests that then Mayor James Summers and other city officials sought a way to honor Congressman Walter Preston Brownlow of Tennessee's First District, U.S. House of Representatives (1896-1910), nephew of controversial governor, William “Parson” Brownlow.

The popular congressman was largely responsible for Johnson City being selected as recipient of the “Mountain Branch of the National Homes for Disabled Volunteer Veterans,” from an Act of Congress dated January 28, 1901.He had sympathized with the plight of thousands of Union Civil War (and later Spanish-American War) veterans, maimed during the four-year conflict and shamefully reduced to mere homeless beggars.

The city fathers reportedly chose to honor Brownlow with a statue to be placed in the heart of their town. After fabrication in a Lenoir City foundry and delivery to the city, the “Lady of the Fountain” reigned in the downtown district over the next approximately thirty-three years, observing the city’s colorful history unfold before her very eyes and ears.

In 1905, the lady watched in shock as the buildings along the south end of Main Street, between Roan Street and Spring Street, burned with one notable exception – the little wooden First Baptist Church. In 1908, she witnessed improvements made for downtown transportation by the paving of the streets with brick.

In 1918, the modest lady celebrated as the Armistice Day (Veteran’s Day) parade marched down Main Street, honoring the return of our soldiers from World War I. Over the years, the lady saw private transportation slowly transform from horse to horse-driven wagon and automobile, and public conveyance from trolley to bus, cab, and train. She routinely viewed busy shoppers, especially on Saturdays, as they crowded into the shops along Fountain Square.

Just when things couldn’t get much better, they got worse. Fate struck the unpretentious lady about 1937 when the city needed to alter parking and traffic flow around Fountain Square, necessitating the use of the site where the statue stood. Workmen came and abruptly separated her from the fountain she had always known.

While the base was summarily discarded, she was spared the same destiny, instead being relocated to the north entrance side of Roosevelt Stadium (now Memorial Stadium). Ironically, this occurred at about the same time that Lady Massengill and her family were arriving in town in the form of another statue, then located at the “Y” intersection of the Kingsport and Bristol highways. 

No longer being the “Lady of the Fountain”, the statue observed very little goings-on in her new location, except for occasional sporting events. The hurrying crowds who passed by her scarcely gave her a glance.

No longer able to provide refreshing water to thirsty pedestrians, she sensed that the populace had forgotten the rationale for bringing her to the city many years prior. Life had become very different and extremely lonely for the former Lady Fountain.

The lady’s tenure at Roosevelt Stadium would prove to be a short one. In about 1943, city officials decided to replace her with yet another statue, a World War I Doughboy.

The city apparently had no plans for the lady, as she quietly vanished to the city dump, without anyone noticing or even caring what had happened to her.

Such an action demonstrated her true current worth to the city that had adopted her. That was no way to treat a lady.

The lady was soon rescued from the trash heap and temporarily stored in a barn along Watauga Avenue.

By 1951, the lady was adorning a flower garden at a home in Henderson, North Carolina, where she would remain for the next roughly thirty-two years. The confused statue was now living outside the very state that had acquired her as a tribute to a U.S. congressman. 

The year 1973 brought renewed interest in the statue. The local Chamber of Commerce began efforts to retrieve her from her garden home, but initial efforts failed because the new owners were not willing to part with her.

There was another problem; the lady had fallen into poor “health” with elongated cracks forming along her legs. Her “doctors” made an effort to restore her health by improperly filling the cracks in her legs with concrete and painting over her characteristic slate blue appearance, demonstrating gross malpractice on their part. That was no way to treat a lady.

When the owners finally agreed to part with the attractive statue, the city immediately procured her, returned her to Johnson City, and began efforts to restore her to her original condition.

A Carter County high school teacher and sculptor, along with her students, carefully stripped the paint, removed the concrete, and properly filled the cracks, giving the lady the look of her former identity when she once graced downtown’s Fountain Square.

 The city showed some long overdue respect for their lady when they declared September 20, 1983 as “Lady of the Fountain Day.” Now, that’s the way to treat a lady. After residing in an academic environment of the old Johnson City Public Library for several years, she now stands in the downtown Municipal and Safety Building’s lobby.

The lady has played an important role in Johnson City’s magnificent past, but the question begs to be answered… “What role will she play in the city’s uncertain future?”

Has the ageless beauty been retired to the comfort and serenity of a government building, or will she once again be prominently displayed where she can reclaim the attention and admiration of future generations of Johnson Citians? Time will tell.  

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For most of this century, the upper East Tennessee region has truly been blessed with a profusion of high-quality old-time musicians. The mere mention of “old-time music” conjures up images of a string band, casually dressed in characteristic mountain attire, playing distinctive deep-south non-amplified toe-tapping dance music on their well-worn and sometimes hand-me-down instruments.

This simple phrase evokes such language as “Appalachian style,” “authentic,” “acoustical,” “old fashioned,” “grass roots,” “hillbilly,” “pre-bluegrass, ”and “rural American.”

The late folklorist Alan Lomax, an ethnomusicologist once affiliated with the Library of Congress, painted a much broader picture of the genre, defining it as music rich in “cultural continuity,” giving its listeners a feeling of security, symbolizing the places where they were born, and evoking their earliest childhood satisfactions. Indeed, this expansive description denotes more than just instruments and ethnicity; it extends into the more complex social and natural environments that nurtured this important musical style.

Several nearby cities were noteworthy in promulgation of old-time music, the most legendary probably being Mountain City’s annual Fiddlers Convention that originated in 1925. Bristol’s offerings included WOPI’s “Saturday Night Jamboree,” WCYB’s “Farm and Fun Time,” and Ralph Peer’s 1927 “Bristol Sessions” for the Victor Talking Machine Company.

Knoxville established its niche with WROL’s “The Cas Walker Farm and Home Hour” and WNOX’s “Midday Merry-Go-Round” and “Tennessee Barn Dance.” Elizabethton’s Bonnie Kate Theatre hosted WJHL’s “Barrel of Fun”; Kingsport followed suit with WKPT's “Saturday Night Hayride.” Throughout the years, Jonesborough, the oldest town in Tennessee, has routinely sponsored music concerts on the square in front of its bravura downtown Court House.

Not content to simply play “second fiddle” to its neighbors, Johnson City has made its own significant contributions to old-time music, producing a hotbed of some of the best musicians in the country. Between 1920 and 1950, several downtown establishments, most of which have been demolished and long forgotten, made a number of offerings to the city’s music culture. Their important stories unquestionably merit being remembered and revered by the populace.

In the 1920s, an outdoor event frequently occurred on Saturday nights along the east side of Fountain Square (opposite the railroad tracks). The occurrence was within a few yards of where Henry Johnson, the city’s founder, wisely built a dwelling in 1854 in anticipation of the East Tennessee and Virginia Railroad being built through the area. After the merchants closed and locked their stores on Saturday nights, the locals would begin filtering in from miles around to play their music, drawing huge crowds of appreciative spectators. Fitting the mold of modern day jam sessions, these musicians spanned the talent range from the most experienced celebrities to the least skilled aspirants, all equally welcomed to participate.

The Deluxe Theatre

In the spring of 1924, the Deluxe Theatre at 148 West Main Street was a beautiful new vaudeville complex with its massive thirty-foot stage, twelve dressing rooms, elaborately decorated balcony, eight guest boxes, and 1250 plush seats. This highly functional building regularly hosted old-time music shows, including “high class” fiddle contests at which the fiddlers sat in a long row across the stage, neatly dressed in surprisingly formal attire, and facing a panel of stern-looking judges along the front row seats.

Contestants would alternately be beckoned to center stage where they would anxiously play a specially selected fiddle tune, and then sit back down and wait, hoping to take home the top prize, and more importantly, the pride that accompanied it. The theatre edifice would later carry such names as the Capital Theatre, the Tennessee Theatre, and finally the Capri Theatre before being razed in 1985.

On October 16, 1928, the Brading-Marshall Lumber Company’s business office at 312 East Main Street became the scene of a myriad of local musicians, each auditioning for a potential record contract with Columbia Records. A slender middle-aged man, with a straggly beard, listened intently as each individual or group played music, in hopes of being invited back that same week for a recording session in their rented temporary makeshift studio.

Frank Buckley Walker, head of Columbia Records’ “hillbilly” recordings’ division, was known by Johnson Citians simply as “Uncle Fuzz”. He acquired his unusual nickname from having always grown a beard before making such audition trips, perhaps believing that he could better relate with the people he was recording. Walker had learned from Ralph Peer of Okeh Records (later switching to Victor Records) that the best way to capture the true inherent nature of these musicians was to record them in their natural environments. Historians would later tag his pioneering efforts as the “Johnson City Sessions.”

During 1929, the management of the Watauga Swimming Pool, located at the corner of West Market Street and Watauga Avenue, learned that they could boost their sales by hiring old-time musicians, giving their customers another reason to patronize their natatorium. The Johnson City Chronicle incorporated a clever advertising promotion by awarding to two lucky subscribers two free tickets, forcing the readership to closely scrutinize the classified ads in order to locate the two small ads containing the names of the winners. This pool would later be known as the Sur Joi and the Carver Pool.

In the 1930s, both the Majestic Theatre at 239 East Main Street and the Sevier Theatre at 117 Spring Street ventured into “big time” vaudeville by occasionally hosting New Year’s Eve celebrations, incorporating a wide variety of local talent. One notable program at the Majestic Theatre featured the grumpy “Old Man Depression of 1932”, yielding at the stroke of midnight to the young and pretty “Miss Prosperity of 1933”, bringing a cheering standing ovation from the audience, who displayed their underlying hope for economic recovery after several years of lingering depression. 

In the 1940s, the City Hall building at 200 West Market Street was the site of weekly Saturday night shows, carrying such names as “The Railsplitters’ Jamboree” and “The Smokey Mountain Jamboree”. The city government would open the doors to its main auditorium, allowing performers to play their music on stage, usually to a packed house, and often featuring an unusual diversity of acts, ranging from a song jamboree to a miniature circus.  

Johnson City produced numerous other musical venues including the Big Burley Warehouse’s “Barn Dance,” concerts at “Mountain Home’s” Memorial Hall, Rich-R-Tone’s Recording Studio, WETB’s live broadcasts of local entertainers, the annual “Gray’s Station Fair,” and countless others. Johnson Citians can take great pride in the fact that their city has continuously fostered old-time music, with the rewards being a new bumper crop of talented musicians, both young and old, emerging onto the playing field almost daily — keeping the tradition alive.  

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There is something nostalgic about a water-operated gristmill with its large wooden vertical overshot water wheel, persistently rotating to power the heavy millstones that grind the staple crops into fine meal suitable for cooking.

While such mills are typically tourist attractions today, there was a time in our country when such structures were essential in maintaining basic food needs of the local community. It was common in East Tennessee for the populace to travel long distances on foot, horseback, or in horse-drawn buggies to transport their crops to a mill for grinding.

Hacker Martin Mill That Once Stood along Cedar Creek in Gray, Tennessee

Anyone traveling the back roads of Gray, Tennessee in the early months of 2002 would have encountered the vestiges of the dilapidated old three-story Hacker Martin Mill. This once majestic structure, standing alongside Cedar Creek, had been a stately hard working gristmill in its heyday. Now the old mill was deserted and silent; no water traveled along the flume from the headrace to the “buckets” of the water wheel.

The question begs to be answered, “What silenced this evocative and elegant piece of Americana?” The simple answer is technology and time. Technology had essentially made the mills obsolete with new and better ways to process the staple crops. Further, time had eroded the old mills with its constant exposure to the seasonal harsh elements of water, ice, snow, wind, and sun, making them costly to maintain. 

Many an old gristmill has faced this same predicament, eventually collapsing into a useless mass of fallen rotten boards. The Hacker Martin Mill appeared to be heading toward this same demise. Even with technology moving away from gristmills, many have been rescued over the years from sudden death.

Some mills have been costly refurbished, either in their original setting or in another locality. Scores have ended up as non-operating or operating museums, general merchandising stores, quaint restaurants, and even picking parlors for local bluegrass and old-time musicians. A select few have been restored specifically for attracting customers to pricey cottages and bed-and-breakfast houses situated around them.

Unfortunately, some mills have been vandalized heavily from years of abandonment and disuse, frequently having their useable parts either stolen or moved as spares for other operating gristmills.

The fate of the Hacker Martin Mill rested in the hands of John Rice Irwin, founder and director of the Museum of Appalachia in Norris, Tennessee. After observing the old mill in Gray, he visualized it in full operation at his living museum, a replica of authentic early pioneer Appalachian life. After purchasing it, he sent workman to Gray in the summer of 2002 to dismantle the enormous structure, piece by piece.

Over a three-week duration, each oak board was removed, identified with distinctive markings, loaded onto a truck, and transported to its new home one hundred and fifteen miles away, requiring forty tractor-trailer loads. This transfer also included the large water wheel and the “French burrs” (or “buhrs”), millstones comprised of separate pieces of freshwater quartz imported from Northern France. Not a trace from the once hard-working old mill was left behind on Cedar Creek.

While disassembly of the old mill went relatively unnoticed by most of its neighbors, Clint Isenberg, a Gray resident who lived just a short distance from the mill, watched the laborious operation with keen awareness and interest, the mill having once been owned by his family. He had fond memories of working and playing in and around it, recalling the days when it was originally used to grind whole wheat into flour and crack corn into chicken feed. Later it was used exclusively for grinding corn.

The original name was Dove Mill, having been constructed in the late 1700s by Coonrod Dove and later sold to Alexander Isenberg when it became known as the Isenberg Mill. Alexander developed the unique and profitable craft of fabricating wooden water wheels, which he sold to the owners of other gristmills.

The facility eventually went to Clint’s aunt, Dollie Isenberg Mohlar, affectionately known as “Doll,” who used it to help support her aging mother. Clint recalls when people would come from all over Gray “to turn a corn to the mill,” an old expression that means to grind corn in the mill.

When the neighbors accumulated a sufficient quantity of corn to grind, they would come to the mill and initiate a form of “self service” by first putting the gate up to dam the water from the creek and start it flowing into the hand-dug flume (or trench) leading to the wheel. They would then ring a bell that was located inside the mill three or four times, a signal to Doll that a customer was ready to have some corn converted to meal. By the time the water flowed to the mill to turn the massive wheel, Doll would be at the helm ready to do business with her patron. Her compensation was usually in the form of a “toll,” a small amount of grain extracted in exchange for the service provided.

In about 1942, Doll sold the mill to Hacker Martin, a legendary gunsmith and old-time fiddle player from the Gray area. He then built a block building adjacent to the mill where he lived and supported his gun business. After a few short years, the old mill was sold to a Thompson family, after which it was shut down, remaining inactive until its relocation to a new home in Norris in mid 2002.

Today, the mill has been reassembled at the Museum of Appalachia to the original design it once enjoyed in Gray. It now sits on the side of a hill, quietly and patiently waiting until equipment can be installed to provide for a steady flow of water to a reservoir behind the displaced mill. This will allow water to flow by gravity down the flume to turn the wheel, grinding out corn meal once again, as it had done during its glorious past.

Indeed, the old mill now appears to be smiling with a new lease on life; Coonrod Dove, Alexander Isenberg, Dollie Isenberg Mohlar, and Hacker Martin would be proud.

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